“Oh, indeed no!  I—­I’d like it,” returned Carley, made to feel friendly and at home in spite of herself.

“You see it’s not as if you were just a stranger,” went on Mrs. Hutter.  “Tom—­that’s Flo’s father—­took a likin’ to Glenn Kilbourne when he first came to Oak Creek over a year ago.  I wonder if you all know how sick that soldier boy was. . . .  Well, he lay on his back for two solid weeks—­in the room we’re givin’ you.  An’ I for one didn’t think he’d ever get up.  But he did.  An’ he got better.  An’ after a while he went to work for Tom.  Then six months an’ more ago he invested in the sheep business with Tom.  He lived with us until he built his cabin up West Fork.  He an’ Flo have run together a good deal, an’ naturally he told her about you.  So you see you’re not a stranger.  An’ we want you to feel you’re with friends.”

“I thank you, Mrs. Hutter,” replied Carley, feelingly.  “I never could thank you enough for being good to Glenn.  I did not know he was so—­so sick.  At first he wrote but seldom.”

“Reckon he never wrote you or told you what he did in the war,” declared Mrs. Hutter.

“Indeed he never did!”

“Well, I’ll tell you some day.  For Tom found out all about him.  Got some of it from a soldier who came to Flagstaff for lung trouble.  He’d been in the same company with Glenn.  We didn’t know this boy’s name while he was in Flagstaff.  But later Tom found out.  John Henderson.  He was only twenty-two, a fine lad.  An’ he died in Phoenix.  We tried to get him out here.  But the boy wouldn’t live on charity.  He was always expectin’ money—­a war bonus, whatever that was.  It didn’t come.  He was a clerk at the El Tovar for a while.  Then he came to Flagstaff.  But it was too cold an’ he stayed there too long.”

“Too bad,” rejoined Carley, thoughtfully.  This information as to the suffering of American soldiers had augmented during the last few months, and seemed to possess strange, poignant power to depress Carley.  Always she had turned away from the unpleasant.  And the misery of unfortunates was as disturbing almost as direct contact with disease and squalor.  But it had begun to dawn upon Carley that there might occur circumstances of life, in every way affronting her comfort and happiness, which it would be impossible to turn her back upon.

At this juncture Flo returned to the room, and again Carley was struck with the girl’s singular freedom of movement and the sense of sure poise and joy that seemed to emanate from her presence.

“I’ve made a fire in your little stove,” she said.  “There’s water heating.  Now won’t you come up and change those traveling clothes.  You’ll want to fix up for Glenn, won’t you?”

Carley had to smile at that.  This girl indeed was frank and unsophisticated, and somehow refreshing.  Carley rose.

“You are both very good to receive me as a friend,” she said.  “I hope I shall not disappoint you. . . .  Yes, I do want to improve my appearance before Glenn sees me. . . .  Is there any way I can send word to him—­by someone who has not seen me?”